


Phoenix Rising

by Vaeyana



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:41:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaeyana/pseuds/Vaeyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>An original piece - all copyright reserved by me.</p></blockquote>





	Phoenix Rising

He runs, heart pounding, through the darkened streets. The stark walls of the tightly-packed houses blend and warp into one another to form a single, solid stone mass. Somewhere high above him, a deep, booming bell reverberates through the night air. Midnight. Well past curfew. Behind him sound the heavy tramps of boots on stone, as his pursuers gain ground. He hurtles out from a shadowed alley and stumbles slightly on the uneven ground. As he skids forward, a sputtering streetlamp casts his face in a brackish haze, revealing a young man, face gaunt and unshaven. The running footsteps behind him grow louder. His eyes, wide and terrified, flick behind him, before he throws himself down an alley and into a darkened doorway, pressing his back against it. Gasping, he chokes on the mid-winter air—bitterly cold and almost dirty, as if it had inhaled the smoke and filth from the streets. He clamps his mouth shut with an audible snap, his chest heaving as he tries to silence his breathing.

A squad of the City Militia races around the corner, brandishing naked blades. The man stiffens, pressing himself even further into the door. The squad’s captain, tall and barrel-chested, holds up a mailed fist. They halt. The squad—their eyes darting around the street—stand in formation, a wall of ruthless steel. The captain steps forward, gazing down the main street. The cold air forms whirling clouds upon his breastplate. He grunts to his men and his hand brushes across his chest, as he signals their next course of action. The now flawless metal clanks as the squad rush down the street and away from the man. 

The man collapses against the door. He wipes his shaking hands on the hem of his tunic and strides away in the opposite direction. 

***

They came during the mid-winter festival, three years ago. The central square was full and bedecked in streamers and evergreen garlands. The dancing crowd cheered as the bowl of oil atop the Pillar, rising above the crowd, was lit. The man stood amongst the throng, grinning as the crowds whirled in a brightly-coloured imitation of the flames. 

“Dance with me Daddy” called his daughter, walking a little unsteadily towards him. The hem of her long, pink dress was clutched in one chubby fist, while the other adjusted the wreath that had become tangled in her hair. He chuckled, teeth flashing white in his handsome face, lifting her high into the air and twirling her about, as she shrieked with laughter. 

When the screams started, they were hardly discernible in the festive cacophony that filled the square and spilled out into the surrounding streets. Unused to conflict, the bewildered citizens were completely defenceless. The Militia swept through the square, a wall of steel and malice encircling the crowd. Bloodshed, that first night, was minimal. The Faction needed a people to rule, after all. The man picked up his sobbing daughter and held her close. “Hush, Alys. It’ll be alright.” He watched helplessly as the festival trappings went up in flames and the square filled with thick, grey smoke that rained ash down upon the crowd. A terrible silence settled over the square as a soldier climbed to the fire atop the Pillar and doused it. People huddled together, grasping hands, as their breaths turned to white mist in the suddenly freezing air. 

In the months following the City’s occupation, some men—driven by either desperation or their own bravado—made attempts at sporadic uprisings. Seeing the destruction wrought on his city, the man contemplated joining them, but he had his daughter to think of. He watched as dissenters were violently and publicly suppressed, for the Faction had informants everywhere. Word travelled fast in this city. 

***

Face flushed with the cold, the man jogs through the city, holding his precious bundle close to his chest. Frozen dirt lies heaped on the roadside—the pathetic remains of long-gone gardens. Besides the outlying farms, the Faction had ordered every plant within the city walls torn up and destroyed, replaced by their new reign of stone, mortar, and damning development. 

Finally, lungs burning with every freezing breath, he rounds a corner and stumbles into the main square. Straining his ears for any sound, he crouches low against a wall. The sudden openness of the square is disorienting, after the crowded back streets. Tattered posters, advertising mindless rallies and fanatical parades cover the bright, painted walls that are now chipped and stained. The Pillar still stands—now a cold, stone monument to the Faction’s success. Each day, the citizens skirt nervously around it, too afraid to look up as they go about their monochromatic parody of life. The Faction’s pennant flies atop the Pillar, the dark cloth taunting the conquered people with every hard snap through the air. 

***

“It’s burning, Daddy!” Alys’ eyes opened wide in her haggard face, as she tried to drag herself upwards on her narrow pallet, sweat-soaked pink cloath clinging to her legs. Her trembling hand reached for the candle sitting on a low crate nearby, the flame’s distorted reflection shining in her strangely distant eyes. “The Pillar’s burning again!” She looked up at him, a smile tilting her lips, suffusing her pallid features with joy. 

He forced a smile. Her face blurred before his rapidly blinking eyes. Softly, he stroked his fingers over her forehead, trying to give a measure of comfort in the contact. Perhaps it was him that sought comfort. He didn’t really care. He didn’t care for anything, anymore—only her. “Yes, sweetheart, I know. It’s beautiful.” 

Turning to him, she lifted her arms imperiously. “Dance with me, Daddy!” He laughed hollowly, the sound hitching in his throat, and gingerly lifted her into the air. Gently, he twirled her about their tiny room, the flickering candle flame flashing across their faces, until her breathing slowed and quietened, and the only sounds remaining were his own racking sobs, muffled as he buried his face in her hair.

***

Hidden in the shadows, he stares towards the Pillar. A lone tear trembles on the precipice of falling, before being swept away by a rough hand. The dark flag flaps slightly—a sinister perversion of the long-dead flames. The man draws himself up and clenches his jaw before striding forward. 

Reaching for the ladder set into the Pillar, he carefully slings his cargo over his back. His knuckles bleed white as he grips the ladder. He pauses, as a flash of muted colour catches his attention. A short vine struggles to rise from its rocky surroundings, the twisted stems and tough grey-green leaves protecting the smallest of white buds. A rare smile graces his lips as he looks down upon the first real plant he’s seen within the City in three years. He doesn’t know how long it will last before the Faction finds it and tears it down. But for the moment it remains untouched for him to slyly admire its rare beauty.

The moment he sets his foot upon the rusty ladder, it lets out a groan that echoes throughout the square. He tenses, head whipping around to look at the square’s entrances. There’s no chance the sound wasn’t heard. A sudden shout and rapid footsteps echo from a few streets over. He begins to climb. 

He is almost two thirds of the way up the ladder when, with a clang, a crossbow bolt hits the Pillar a few feet from his hand. Vicious chips of stone fly across his face. Desperately, he climbs faster, daring a glance down at the soldiers hurrying across the square. He reaches the platform and heaves himself onto the stone with stiff fingers. Cautiously, he stands, swaying slightly in the icy wind that whips about him, catching at his hair and clothes, threatening to pull him over at any moment. Lurching forward, he gazes down at the great, iron bowl set into the grey stone, strewn with broken pieces of coal and smeared with an oily residue. A long, wooden post is set into the stone above the bowl, from which flies the Faction’s flag. 

The man reaches for his bundle, hands fumbling, laying the rough sack upon the stone. He removes a large bottle of oil with fumbling fingers. Discarding the cork, he upends the bottle into the bowl, before splashing what’s left on the wooden flagpole, unconcerned by the oil that drips onto his face and clothes. He hurls the empty bottle over one shoulder, indifferent to the smash as it shatters on the stone far below. He reaches once more into the sack, producing flint and steel. The seemingly innocuous instruments lie quietly in his trembling hand. He swallows. The sharp scent of the oil hangs cloyingly in the air, as he takes a deep breath, and exhales in stuttering puffs of air. Once. Twice. The shaking in his hands slows. He kneels, drawing from a pocket a thin scrap of pink cloth and lays it gently on the ground, stroking it once with a loving finger. With a sure hand, he strikes the flint against the steel, the sharp taps echoing loudly in the sudden silence. A shower of sparks erupts at every strike, raining down on the flimsy cloth, which smokes slightly before igniting. Grasping a corner, he turns and casts it onto the oil and coal filling the basin. The empty sack follows. In a sudden rush, the oil takes light, flames roaring up above him. Greedy fingers of flame catch at the oil-soaked pole, racing upwards. The man watches, a glow flickering across his face, as the flames set the dark pennant ablaze. Seeing this, the man rises to his feet, tears finally streaming down his cheeks, as he gazes across the City spread out below him. He closes his eyes. 

At the base of the Pillar, the squad’s captain gazes up at the dark figure illuminated against the blaze. As he watches, it tumbles backwards and is consumed by the flames, which flare up high and paint the square a flickering orange-red. He curses darkly under his breath. He has already sent his squad scrambling for water, desperate to salvage what he can from the entire debacle. He flicks his eyes around at the windows surrounding the square for any sign that the incident has attracted anyone’s attention. As his men return, and begin hauling buckets of water up the ladder, he reluctantly turns, scowling as he trudges off to report his failure to the Faction—and their undoubtedly violent displeasure. Hopefully they can do something to contain the situation.

And in the shadows of an alley, a small boy, with wide eyes, mouth open in a look of shocked disbelief, drawn to the commotion by the reckless curiosity of youth, turns and stumbles, quietly and unseen, back home to his mother.

Word travels fast in this city.

**Author's Note:**

> An original piece - all copyright reserved by me.


End file.
